


Lover's Gambit

by queenkrazykat



Series: Love and War [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Angst and Tragedy, Blood and Injury, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Behavior, Canon-Typical Violence, Dean Winchester Needs a Hug, Emotionally Hurt Dean Winchester, Episode: s06e21 Let It Bleed, F/M, Family Issues, Father-Daughter Relationship, Female Hunters, Frustrated Dean Winchester, Frustrated Sam Winchester, Helpful Sam Winchester, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt No Comfort, Loss of Parent(s), Major Character Injury, Major Original Character(s), Male-Female Friendship, Platonic Female/Male Relationships, Plot, Plot Twists, Ruler of Hell Crowley (Supernatural), Sacrifice, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Some Plot, Tragedy, Weird Plot Shit, Worried Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-13 05:35:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28648404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenkrazykat/pseuds/queenkrazykat
Summary: With Eve dead, things are back to normal in the supernatural world—if you could call it normal. But Emma is still troubled; Jonathan haunts her nightmares, and what Balthazar revealed to her weighs heavily on her shoulders. When she turns up at Bobby Singer’s doorstep, asking for help in uncovering the truth behind her apparent Nephilim nature, she finds Dean in a terrible state. [Based on: 6x21 Let It Bleed]
Relationships: Balthazar (Supernatural) & Original Female Character(s), Dean Winchester/Original Female Character(s), Lisa Braeden/Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester & Original Female Character(s)
Series: Love and War [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2075211
Kudos: 6





	1. Chapter 1

Just like the last time, it took Emma nearly ten minutes to navigate her way through the sky-high piles of scrap metal and old, ripped-apart cars to find the front door. In the darkness, the piles of metal looked like silent sentinels, watching everyone who came in and went out of Singer Salvage Yard.

Bobby’s house sat in the middle of the yard, looking like the largest and grandest wreck of all. Emma stepped over a rusted engine lying on the porch and knocked on the door. She could hear voices inside, raised voices, as though somebody was arguing. Feeling a little apprehensive, Emma hesitated, wondering if she should leave, or if she should stay and try to help.

Before she could make up her mind, the door flew open. But it wasn’t Bobby—it was Sam, looking harassed. He stared at Emma for a minute, as though he couldn’t quite register her presence. “Emma?”

“Hey,” Emma said. She didn’t think she would ever get used to how tall he was. “Just swung by to return this—” She dug around in her bag and held up her copy of _Nephilima Commentarius_. “Is Bobby around?”

Sam hesitated, glanced over his shoulder once, and then stepped back. “You’d better come in.”

She followed Sam into the living room, where Dean was standing over the desk, his face tight and drawn with worry. “Alright, I think I’ve got it,” he said, without looking up. “And I think Bobby has everything we need, too—” He put down the book, strode over to the kitchen, and began rummaging around in the fridge, making a great deal of noise.

“Um—” Emma swung around. The living room was in a state of disarray that was unusual even for Bobby, with books strewn around on the desk, the coffee table and even the floor. Only one spot was clear of books—a spot in front of the window. There was a pattern drawn in blood, with a bowl sitting in the center.

Emma knew what it was, instantly—her extensive study of _Nephilima Commentarius_ made sure of it. “You’re trying to summon an angel?”

Both brothers looked up. Dean blinked at her, as if just realizing that she was there. “Tried,” he said curtly. “It didn’t do us any good.”

“Why?” Emma said curiously, looking from one to the other. “Did something happen again—like with the Titanic?”

Dean looked away. He seemed to be struggling with himself. “No, nothing like that,” he said finally.

“Then why?”

“Nothing you need to worry about,” Dean said sharply.

“Dean,” Sam chided. “Maybe she can help.”

Dean scoffed and turned away.

Sam seemed to take this as a yes. “Someone’s been kidnapped,” Sam said. “We’re trying to find out where they are.”

“They’re innocent,” Dean interrupted sharply. “Humans. With normal lives.”

Sam gave Dean a worried glance. “Right, yeah.”

“So why are you summoning an angel?” Emma said.

Sam hesitated. “We thought Balthazar could tell us where—”

There was the sound of rushing wings. A powerful breeze swept the room, sending pages flipping all over the room. Emma whirled around—that sound could only mean one thing—and there he was, leaning against the kitchen counter, looking almost bored.

“Oh, look,” he said, idly examining his nails. “The dream team, back together again.”

* * *

“I know I’m going to live to regret this,” Balthazar sighed, “but I’m officially on your team. You bastards.”

Dean scoffed. He tossed the book he was holding back onto the desk with unnecessary force. “And why should we believe you?”

Balthazar looked at Dean with puppy dog eyes and pressed a hand to his heart. “Oh. That hurts. Truly.” He sighed and strode towards the window, examining the summoning circle. “It’s survival. You see, I asked Cas some questions and I disliked his answers. He seems awfully sure of himself for a man who wants to swallow a million nuclear reactors. I mean, these things can get a bit Chernobyl, you know?”

He turned back around and spread his arms with a flourish. “So, voilà. Consider me your double agent. I can take you to your friends.”

Dean’s whole demeanor changed instantly, moving from cold indifference to eager worry. “You found them?”

“Upside, yes. Downside, I can’t get them for you. Crowley's angel-proofed the whole bloody building. I guess he doesn't trust Cas. Seems that marriage is going swimmingly.” He grinned at Emma with pearl-white teeth.

“Get us as close you can, then,” Dean said.

“Sure. But then you’re on your own.”

“Alright. Sam, let’s go—”

“Hold on,” Emma protested. “I’m coming with.”

“No, you’re not,” Dean retorted.

“Why? Isn’t this what we do? Saving people?”

Dean raised eyes his upwards, as if praying for patience. “This is different,” he said through gritted teeth.

“How?”

“Because of Crowley,” Dean said. “Crowley—the King of Hell. He’s the one who kidnapped Lisa and Ben.”

“I’ve faced demons before,” Emma said fiercely. “This is what we do, Dean. We save people and we hunt things. Besides,” she added, “I have freaking telekinetic powers—tell me you won’t be happy to have me by your side.” Even as she said it, she remembered Balthazar warning her to stop using her powers, but the angel seemed unconcerned about it for the moment.

Dean hesitated, clearly torn between wanting to stop Emma from coming along and wanting to rescue Lisa and Ben.

Ben and Lisa won.

“Alright, fine,” Dean said finally. “Let’s go.”

* * *

Balthazar teleported them to a narrow, deserted alleyway. The sensation was hideously unpleasant; Emma felt as though she had just been squeezed through a very tight rubber tube. Sam and Dean recovered quickly, but Emma had to lean against the wall to stop the world from spinning.

“Oh dear,” Balthazar said with mild concern. “I’m afraid that does take some getting used to.”

“You bet,” Emma gasped, straightening gingerly.

Balthazar clapped his hands. “Alright, this is where I get off. God be with you and what have you. Send a postcard when you’re done.” He disappeared with a faint rustle of wings.

“Wait! Where are Lisa and—” Dean turned on the spot, and then swore. “He’s gone!”

“Think that’s it?” Sam was pointing at a rickety building a little farther ahead. It looked as if it had abandoned for years—the glass was broken, littering the pavement like tiny stars. It was no more than two or three stories high.

The front door opened. Immediately, Dean, Emma, and Sam ducked behind a dumpster. Emma’s heart was in her mouth. A strange, tingling sensation pervaded her fingers and toes, as though she’d overdosed on caffeine—the pre-anticipation of a fight. Quietly, she peeked around the corner. The man was still standing on the porch. As she watched, he came down the steps. His eyes flickered black briefly.

Emma ducked back and whispered to Dean, “That’s the one. There’s a guy standing outside—a demon.”

Dean looked at her hard. “You’re sure?”

“Positive—”

Dean didn’t wait to hear any more. He was up and sprinting towards the demon, knife in hand. Sam cursed, and leapt up after Dean. Emma followed.

The demon whirled around, snarling, but Dean was too quick. He plunged his knife into its chest. Strangely, the demon seemed to go out like a light—literally, like an old bulb flickering before going out. Emma stared at the knife Dean was holding. “What kind of a knife is that?”

“One that kills demons,” Dean said. “Alright, now, we’ve got to find Lisa and Ben—”

“Hold it,” Sam said. “Crowley’s bound to have demons crawling all over the place, he would have known you’d try to rescue them—”

“It doesn’t matter, Sam—”

“We can’t just _walk_ in there, Dean—”

“Guys?” Emma interrupted. “What we need is a distraction.”

Both Sam and Dean broke off and looked at her.

“What kind of distraction?” Dean said.

Emma spread her arms. “Me. Let me go in at the front. I can keep the demons occupied long enough for you to find Lisa and Ben.”

“No way,” Sam said immediately. “You can’t take out an entire _army_ of demons yourself.”

“I don’t need to take them out,” Emma said steadily. “I just need to keep them distracted long enough for Dean to find Lisa and Ben.”

Dean bit his lip. “Emma, I don’t—”

“I’m your best shot.”

And it was the truth.

Dean sighed. “Alright then.” He flipped the knife he was holding, and held it out, hilt-first, to Emma. “You’ll need this.”


	2. Chapter 2

It was as though she had been injected with pure electricity. Her heart was hammering in her ribs like a bird trying to escape its cage. Sam and Dean had already left, each of them creeping around opposite sides of the house to look for a side or back entrance. They would be waiting for her distraction.

She lightly flipped the knife that Dean had given her. Knives were her favorite weapon—small, deadly and almost always underestimated. The blade she held was beautifully shaped, curving to a point, serrated on one side. Despite its beauty, it felt small in her hand—what good would it do against an army of demons? Why had she agreed to this?

She searched herself for an answer and couldn’t find one. Since Jonathan’s death, she had been almost constantly on the move—a new case and a new fight every day. It was as though she was trying to outrun something, something that would completely crush her if she let it catch up.

Emma kicked the front door open, sending it ricocheting off the wall. The inside of the building was just as filthy as the outside. A strong smell invaded her nostrils—a sickly sweet rotting smell that seemed to settle in the nose and lungs like a living thing. The stench of demons.

She barely had time to register the rest of her surroundings before an enormous shape hurled itself at her. Emma dodged, slashed with the knife, and the large shape staggered. He turned and snarled, his eyes glowing white in the darkness, and Emma thrust the knife into his ribcage.

Footsteps. More demons were on their way, appearing from the other room, pouring down the staircase—easily a dozen of them. Emma tugged the knife out and the demon she had killed slumped to the ground. She backed up against the wall, eyes searching for anything she could use—and then she spotted something that made her stomach leap in relief.

Emma reached out for the large wooden beams on the roof—she imagined a gigantic hand reaching up and pulling them down .There was a tug in the pit of her stomach, and the roof collapsed with the most tremendous crash, making the whole house tremble like a leaf. Most of the demons were crushed under piles of wood, but a few shrugged them off and kept coming, their eyes pitch-black, snarling menacingly.

There was nothing for it but to fight.

* * *

Dean pressed the cloth tight against the wound in Lisa’s stomach, his fingers slick with blood. She groaned in pain, but her eyes didn’t open. “It’s okay, honey, it’s alright,” Dean said, trying to keep his voice steady. He dialed Sam’s number, trembling fingers slipping on the buttons, but it only went to his voicemail. Dean cursed lightly and shoved the phone back into pocket.

“Ben,” he said sharply. The boy was staring at his mother, white with horror, his hands clenched at his sides.

“Ben!” Dean walked over to him and shook him by the shoulder, hard. Ben’s gaze finally snapped away from his mother and he looked at Dean with wide, frightened eyes. “I need you to pull it together, okay? You’ve got to be strong. Your mom needs you right now.”

Ben nodded slowly, and Dean felt a surge of admiration for the boy. It didn’t matter whether Ben was his son or not, he loved him like one. “Go grab my gun, will you? I need to carry your mom, so if anything comes at us, you need to shoot it.”

Ben stumbled over to the Colt, which was lying abandoned some ten feet away, while Dean scooped Lisa up in his arms. When he turned around, Ben was standing there, holding the gun gingerly, staring at it as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was doing.

“Elbows tucked in,” Dean said. “Keep the gun high, shoulder height, and keep the barrel straight—parallel to the ground. Watch for the kick. You ready? Okay, let’s go.”

They crept out of the room, Ben in the lead, with Dean behind him. Lisa was completely unconscious now, her head resting against Dean’s shoulder. Blood had soaked through the rag he had pressed against her wound, staining his clothes.

Muffled footsteps sounded.

“Ben!” Dean said sharply, fear spiking his heart. Ben raised the gun unsteadily—and a tall figure stepped appeared around the corner.

“Sam!” Dean exclaimed, relief making him almost lightheaded. “Where the hell were you?”

“Demons got me,” Sam said grimly. “Come on, let’s go.” He took the gun from Ben—who seemed only to relieved to hand it over—and led them quickly out of the building through the back entrance, emerging in a backyard of sorts. The sounds of fighting still echoed from inside the house—shouts and bangs.

“Sam—we need to get Lisa to a hospital—”

“I’m on it,” Sam said through gritted teeth. He strode over to the nearest car—a white Toyota—and smashed open the window. The car immediately sent up an insistent blaring sound, but he ignored it. “Alright, get in!”

Ben opened the back door and Dean carefully laid Lisa in the back seat.

“Emma!” Sam yelled. “Emma, get out here, god damn it!”

There was no reply.

Sam hesitated, looking back and forth between the car and the building.

Dean pushed Ben into the back seat. “Go!” he yelled to Sam. “Help her!” Without waiting for a reply, he got into the front seat.

* * *

Sam ran towards the building again. The front room was completely wrecked—the roof had fallen in, and the floor had given way to it. That wasn’t all—slabs of wood were embedded in the walls, as though someone had thrown them across the room with superhuman strength. Some of the demons were pinned against it, hanging lifelessly, like macabre mannequins.

There were noises from the adjacent room—thuds and the creaking of wood. Sam crept towards the sound, gun cocked and aimed.

A demon had Emma pinned against the ground, his hand squeezing her throat. The knife lay ten feet away, its blade shining sharply in the dull light. When Sam entered the demon looked up, momentarily distracted. Sam fired, hitting the demon between the eyes. It collapsed on top of Emma, and she screamed in pain.

Sam ran forward and tugged the demon’s body off her. “Alright, come on,” he said. He attempted to pull her to her feet, but she screamed louder than ever.

“Emma, what—”

And then he saw it. Emma’s leg had appeared strangely distorted when he had first entered, but he had not thought much of it; it was broken, and badly. The thigh bone appeared to have shattered in half, and it had broken through her skin, gleaming in the darkness.

Emma seemed too dazed to even speak—Sam was astonished that she was even conscious. He fought down his nausea. “Emma, are there any others?”

Mutely, Emma shook her head. She was sitting up a little now, and she was clutching the sleeve of his shirt tightly.

“Okay, we need to get you to a hospital,” Sam said. “Can you—” He was about to ask, _can you stand_ , and then realized just how stupid it would sound. If she couldn’t stand, she couldn’t walk. And there was no way he could carry her without making it worse.

“Shit,” he muttered, and pulled out his phone. The last thing he wanted to do was call an ambulance, and deal with the authorities asking questions. The house was destroyed and littered with bodies—any cop worth his donuts would figure that something really nasty had gone down here.

But he had no choice. Emma’s eyes were fluttering, and she was taking short, rapid breaths. If he didn’t act now, she would go into shock.

“911, what is your emergency?”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Song pairing** \- [EVERMORE // TAYLOR SWIFT, BON IVER](https://open.spotify.com/track/3O5osWf1rSoKMwe6E9ZaXP?si=o3YUCFUORlWoteSWVdg0IA)

The Royal Hospital—like nearly every other hospital Sam had ever visited—was scrupulously clean, almost blindingly white. Sam crossed the entrance, narrowly avoiding having his foot crushed by a nurse pushing a wheelchair, and made his way to the reception desk. An attempt had been to make it more welcoming with a vase of dried and long-dead flowers, but it didn’t help much.

“I’m here to see an Emma Stallard,” he said to the young woman behind the reception desk. “My name is Sam Winchester, I came with her in the ambulance last night?”

“Just a second, sir,” she said, and began tapping away at the keyboard in front of her. Sam waited patiently, tapping his fingers on the counter. Dean had already gone ahead to visit Lisa and Ben, who were in the same hospital.

Sam was worried about him. Dean had stuck around at the hospital well into the night, refusing all offers to go home, not leaving his post until the doctors had informed him that Lisa was alright. He had returned to the motel at five in the morning, and left less than three hours later, when visiting hours started again.

“Emma Stallard. Yes, she’s in Ward 14B—one floor up, should be on your left.”

“Thanks.”

* * *

Ward 14B was one of the more luxurious wards in the hospital, reserved mostly for long-term patients. When Sam entered the ward, Emma was lying up on her pillows, talking to a man in a white coat.

“—good to see you again, Emma,” the doctor was saying. “Rather unfortunate circumstances, but—”

“Sam!” Emma blurted out, spotting him hovering uncertainly by the door.

The doctor turned, regarding him with an interested gaze. “Ah! Mr. Winchester, I take it?”

Sam’s first and rather foolish thought was that the doctor looked rather like an old lion, with a mane of white-grey hair, and a tall, stopping frame. “Um—yes,” he said. “How did—”

“This young lady, of course,” the doctor said, in his throaty voice. “Thank you for bringing her here, young man. Any longer and the infection would have set in.”

“Sam, this is Dr. Rosenberg,” Emma said. She hesitated, and added, “He was a friend of my mother’s.”

An awkward silence seemed to settle on the room at Emma’s words. Dr. Rosenberg began riffling through the files he was carrying, cleared his throat loudly and said, “Well, Emma, I’ll leave you and Mr. Winchester now. If you need anything, just use the call button.”

Sam waited until the doctor had left, then took a seat beside Emma’s bed. “You’re looking a lot better today,” he said. It was the truth. She looked a little less pale, but the bags under her eyes were deep, and when she smiled at him, her gaze was a little off focus.

“They’ve given me oxycodone,” she said, with the trace of a laugh. “It’s making me feel horribly sick, but hey, at least I feel good about it.” She was talking nonchalantly, but her posture was stiff, and her hands were clenched around the bedsheets.

“How are Lisa and Ben?” she asked.

“They’re alright,” Sam said. “They’re here too, actually. Turns out Royal is the closest hospital to where they were being held, so—”

“Why? What happened?”

“Ben’s alright, but Lisa was hurt pretty bad. She’s okay now.”

Emma smiled—a tight, forced smile, but a smile all the same. “That’s good to know. And how’s Dean?”

“Dean’s fine,” Sam said, a little too quickly, but Emma didn’t seem to catch his lie. She nodded and leaned back, fingers tracing the edge of her cast, which covered the entirety of her left leg.

“How are you doing?” Sam said.

“Fine, except for the nausea and the lightheadedness.” She tapped the cast. “This thing is so itchy—I can’t imagine wearing it for three months. God save me.”

“How did it happen, anyway?”

“Oh, I brought the wall down on myself, like a perfect idiot. Now it’ll take three months before I can even start using the leg again. On the other hand, I could use the vacation.”

Sam smiled lightly. She was doing the same thing Dean did every time—hiding behind a thin veil of humor, only occasionally peeking out. He wanted to ask her about what had happened after Cold Oak, after they had left her at the hospital. But somehow, he knew that she would never give a straight answer.

“Emma, how did you become a hunter?”

Instantly, Emma’s whole demeanor changed. It was as though an icy wind had swept through the room, wiping off the smile from her face. Her expression was closed, her eyes guarded. “I thought I already told you. My brother died, and my mother—well, she-”

She cleared her throat and looked away, out of the window. It was a brilliantly sunny day. Another vase of dried flowers stood on the windowsill—another useless attempt to soften the white harshness of the hospital. “About three weeks after Cold Oak, my mother was possessed by a demon. She tried to kill me—and nothing could stop her. Bullets, knives, nothing.” Her voice was flat, her gaze still fixed on the window. She sounded as though she was reading from a piece of paper. “This guy, a hunter—his name was Matt—he exorcised the demon, sent it to Hell. But my mother didn’t make it.”

Finally, she looked back at him. Her face was tightly drawn, but her eyes were hard, armed to the teeth to withstand any onslaught of sympathy.

“Emma,” Sam started, and then stopped. He didn’t know what to say.

“I think I’m going to get some rest,” Emma said. Her tone was polite, but there was a finality in it that signaled the end of the conversation. “Thanks for coming to see me.” She gave him a weak smile.

Sam got to his feet. “Um—when do you get discharged? Would you need a ride anywhere, or—?”

“No, I’m good, thanks. Matt will be here this evening.”

* * *

After Sam left, Emma stared out of the window and thought about death. The first time she ever encountered ‘death’ as a concept was when she was six, and her grandfather died of a stroke. As she had never been close to him, Emma didn’t miss him, but his death had hung around them all like a great big bird, casting a shadow on their house.

It was only when she was sixteen that she understood just how blurred the line was between life and death. Her father had just died—an untimely heart attack, and just like her grandfather, he lived long after his death, in the hushed voices of the people in the house, in her mother’s puffy red eyes, in her classmates stifled whispers and her teacher’s sympathetic glances. That was how she came to hate sympathy.

Like her grandfather, her father was a near stranger to her—someone who arrived only occasionally, once or twice a month, and never for more than a few days at a time. The rest of the time, he was in remote corners of the world—being a Foreign Service Offer. Emma hadn’t minded. Her mother and brother were all she had ever needed, even in the big and mostly empty family house.

With every death Emma saw, the line became thinner and thinner. When her brother died, Emma saw him in her dreams—dreams that ended in blissful reunion, and dreams that ended in his horrific death. When her mother died just a few weeks later, the line vanished completely, and Emma saw them both in her dreams, coming and going, mere shadows of their former selves.

And just a few weeks ago, Jonathan had joined them, his hair slightly duller, but his smile as bright as ever.

Tears escaped her eyes, and she prayed that nobody came to visit—she didn’t think she had the strength to raise her hand and wipe them away. The cast itched, and Emma absent-mindedly squeezed her leg, immediately regretting it when a short stab of pain shot up her leg.

“Oh, are we on to the brooding part of our schedule now?”

Emma jerked upright, and another wave of pain hit her.

Balthazar was leaning against the wall in the corner, eyeing her with an odd mixture of pity and interest.

Emma was too tired to care or even be angry that he had somehow broken into her ward. Then again, he was an angel—reception desks and required visitor passes were probably not an obstacle for him. 

“What do you want?” she said listlessly.

“To check up on you, of course,” Balthazar said. He strode over and occupied Sam’s recently vacated seat. “You are my daughter, after all—”

“No,” Emma said quietly.

“I’m sorry?”

“You may have fucked my biological mother, Balthazar, but that doesn’t make me your daughter, and it doesn’t make you my dad. My dad died when I was sixteen. My real mom, well—” Tears were still flowing thick and fast down her face, and she angrily wiped them away.

Balthazar was quiet for a minute. “I know it doesn’t seem like it, but I care about you—”

Emma was shaking her head the whole time. “Lies? More lies? First you lie about the stupid necklace, and then this? Tell me this, then—if you cared about me, where were you when Azazel was having us star in his own twisted reality show? Where were you when my brother died? Where were you WHEN MY MOTHER WENT CRAZY AND TRIED TO KILL ME?”

A nurse rushed into the room. “Miss Stallard? Everything okay?” She glanced around the room, and her eyes slid right over Balthazar, as if she couldn’t see him at all.

Emma turned her face away. “Everything’s fine, thanks.”

“Are you sure? I could—”

“I’d like be left alone, please.”

The nurse hovered uncertainly for another moment. She was young—perhaps fresh out of college—and was seemingly unwilling to leave when a patient might be in distress. Then she left the room, reminding Emma to use the call button if she needed anything.

“Get out, Balthazar,” Emma said, once the nurse was out of earshot. “Please, just get out. I don’t give a rat’s ass about what you want or what you have to say—just get out.”

Balthazar was quiet for a moment. Then he got up, unfolding his long legs. “If you say so,” he said. “But let me do something for you first.” Before Emma could mount a protest, he laid a gentle hand on her cast.

Emma gasped. The bones inside her leg were moving—she could feel them pushing aside tissue and muscle, fusing back together. It was an extremely bizarre feeling, to say the least. “What the—”

“You’re healed now,” Balthazar said simply, lifting his hand. “Consider it repayment. Or part of it, anyway.”

He disappeared with a rush of beating wings.


End file.
